American culture is torn between our long romance with violence

Host: The bar was dim and nearly empty — a forgotten corner of the city where the world’s noise softened into a low, pulsing hum. Cigarette smoke curled in lazy spirals toward a flickering neon sign, and a faint blues melody whispered from the jukebox, thick with melancholy and memory. The rain outside pressed against the windows, streaking the glass like tears that refused to fall.

At the back, in a booth half-swallowed by shadow, sat Jack and Jeeny. Between them: two untouched glasses, an ashtray filled with the evidence of thought. On the wall behind them hung a photograph — an American soldier kissing a nurse on V-J Day — faded, romantic, haunted.

Host: Tonight’s conversation did not come to mourn the country, but to dissect it — to find where love turned into obsession, and power into fear.

Jeeny: “Katherine Dunn once said, ‘American culture is torn between our long romance with violence and our terror of the devastation wrought by war and crime and environmental havoc.’”
She traced the rim of her glass with a slow fingertip. “I think she’s right. We’re a nation addicted to our own destruction — we crave violence, but we flinch at the mirror.”

Jack: “Addicted’s the word. Violence is the only language we speak fluently anymore. Every movie, every headline, every victory — it’s written in blood. But we call it entertainment, patriotism, self-defense.”

Jeeny: “Or justice.”

Jack: “Justice?” He laughed quietly, a sound too bitter to echo. “We don’t want justice. We want catharsis. That’s what violence gives us — the illusion that pain can be purified by inflicting it.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound inevitable. Like it’s in our DNA.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. This country was built with one hand on the Bible and the other on a gun.”

Host: The rain thickened outside, muting the city’s pulse. A siren wailed in the distance, fading into the rhythm of thunder. The flicker of the neon sign painted their faces red and blue — like police lights, or like confession.

Jeeny: “Dunn said we’re torn — and that’s the tragedy. It’s not that we love violence; it’s that we’re ashamed of loving it. We watch war movies and call it history, we idolize soldiers but ignore the wounded. We pretend to hate what secretly thrills us.”

Jack: “And that shame makes us worse. Because when a nation denies its appetite, it hides it in policy. It finds noble reasons to destroy — freedom, progress, protection.”

Jeeny: “You mean hypocrisy.”

Jack: “No,” he said, leaning forward. “Hypocrisy is pretending to care. This is worse — it’s the inability to stop loving the thing that’s killing you.”

Jeeny: “You’re talking like America’s a toxic lover.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? It seduces you with liberty, then breaks your heart with violence. And we keep coming back.”

Host: A long silence fell. The jukebox changed songs — a low, mournful saxophone carrying the sound of regret. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the photograph on the wall, the frozen kiss, the triumph of a war that ended but never really stopped echoing.

Jeeny: “You know what I think’s worse than the violence?” she asked softly. “The numbness. The way we’ve normalized it. School shootings, bombings, storms — they flash across the screen, and by the next commercial, we’re hungry again.”

Jack: “That’s survival. The human brain can’t carry every tragedy.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s conditioning. We’ve learned to mistake apathy for strength. We call it resilience when it’s really just emotional amputation.”

Jack: “You sound angry.”

Jeeny: “I am. Because the same country that cries over one tragedy profits from the next. We televise pain like it’s performance art.”

Jack: “And yet,” he murmured, “we still watch.”

Host: The light flickered again. The bar’s lone ceiling fan creaked like an old memory turning too slowly. Jeeny’s hand trembled slightly as she lifted her glass, then set it down untouched.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think about environmental havoc — the last part of Dunn’s quote? How it’s the same story, just quieter? The Earth bleeding instead of people.”

Jack: “Violence disguised as progress,” he said. “We build, we burn, we profit, and we call it civilization. It’s just warfare with better branding.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And the planet becomes the silent casualty of our love affair with dominance.”

Jack: “The sad part? We admire destruction more than creation. A hurricane makes headlines. A tree growing doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “Because chaos makes us feel alive. Creation requires patience — and patience doesn’t sell.”

Host: Outside, the rain turned to mist, softening the glow of the city lights. Inside, the air thickened with truth — the kind that didn’t need shouting, only acknowledgment.

Jack: “So what’s the cure, Jeeny? What do we do with a culture that craves violence but worships denial?”

Jeeny: “We remember the other kind of courage — the quiet kind. The courage to nurture, to protect, to feel. Violence is lazy passion. Creation takes work.”

Jack: “You think people will choose creation?”

Jeeny: “Not yet. But maybe conversation is the first act of creation. Maybe every time we talk about it, we plant a seed in the ruins.”

Jack: “And what grows there?”

Jeeny: “Whatever we’re brave enough to imagine.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now, leaving behind a silence so deep it seemed to stretch through time. The bar’s neon light buzzed softly, its reflection trembling in the puddle by the door.

Jack: “You know,” he said quietly, “Dunn was right — we’re torn. But maybe being torn means we’re not entirely lost. A torn fabric can still be mended.”

Jeeny: “If we stop tearing long enough to sew.”

Jack: “You always make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s sacred.”

Host: She smiled then — not in joy, but in defiance. The kind of smile that belongs to people who’ve stopped waiting for permission to hope.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack, violence is the language of fear. But tenderness — that’s the language of courage. And I still think America can learn to speak it again.”

Host: The city lights flickered outside like stars behind glass. The storm had passed, but its reflection lingered in every puddle, every windowpane, every shadow that dared to move.

As they stood to leave, the old photograph behind them caught a final glint of light — the soldier, the kiss, the illusion of peace.

Host: And in that faint shimmer, Dunn’s words seemed to hum — a confession, a warning, and a plea all at once:

That the heart of a nation cannot beat forever on the rhythm of gunfire,
that love without restraint becomes hunger,
and that one day, our greatest act of bravery
will not be in fighting,
but in finally learning how to stop.